On Sunday night I finally dragged my tired self to a nearby yoga studio, unfurled my (rented) mat, and got down to the business of moving and sweating. I hadn’t been to a yoga class in well over six months and boy, did it make me feel awesome. I was pleased with myself for venturing to a new studio alone and for challenging myself physically – an element of my life that has been sorely missing lately (no pun intended).
The Sunday class was packed to the gills and a little sweatier and noisier than the classes I was used to in Seattle. Those factors actually made me chuckle more than anything; in time I could probably get into the dramatic OMMMMMing that my fellow yogis were indulging in, but at the time it mostly just startled me!
After I got home I also realized that the studio I went to just may be the very same studio as the one featured in this unintentionally terrible piece that got some negative buzz earlier this year: There are no Black People in my Yoga Class and I’m Uncomfortable with It. Oy… posting about THAT is a little more than I feel able to take on at the moment, but I did poke around online a little bit to find the author’s apology. So there’s that. Anyway.
The first yoga class I ever took was in the summer of 2004 at my university, a class mostly attended by older female staff members, plus a couple friends and me. It took me by surprise to realize I’ve been doing yoga for 10 years! (I say “doing” because I don’t feel quite sophisticated enough to say “practicing.”) It’s been an off-and-on sequence of college classes, gym classes, studio classes, and the occasional individual session on a mat in my living room. I’ve never dedicated myself to it enough to master (or sometimes even try) some of the more advanced poses, but I do appreciate what yoga has been throughout my life over this past decade: a physically challenging, mentally fulfilling, and ultimately relaxing and positive experience.